The moon-faced old man hauls my suitcase Into the underbelly of the Buzz Lightyear Disney Express The velcro of his single black glove frays with each smile. Bienvenidos abordo I’m startled by the lavender-crayon flowers of the jacaranda Creeping shyly over washed-out stucco walls that Separate highway from houses, speed from sprawl. Neon signs spell “HIS NIBS CIGS” in the strip mall window. A fringe of Italian cypress peeks out from behind Layers of adobe tile that hide the

I wake up and I am not me. These are not my wide, wrinkled hands, These are not my indigo bruises Grabbed in fistfuls of cellulite As I contort this spine to see the mirror. Through stagnant musk I pad with stranger’s feet Numbed by the frozen tile. I should stop wiggling the toes, I shouldn’t let the pain seep in. I am fine in this fuzzy uncertainty, I am conscious enough to recognize There are memories to elude Emotions to suppress. I brush these teeth with 10,000 bristles,

i still remember as if it were yesterday, every bead of sweat even! of how i refused to even want a kiss but you forced me to kiss you thrice; you insisted we would "do it" if the video game wouldn't work and i never prayed so hard for technology not to fail me but it did—and you tried to force yourself on me despite the fact i said no, and though you were stronger in a surge of adrenaline rush i was able to push you away; and i was never so relieved to be leaving somewhere—t

Pelado 1940 Muy, muy, pero muy Masculina So you don’t think you will Get to touch a woman anymore You can lick a moustache Touch my testicles Fondle this traje estupido Lo que antes gustaba Lo hypersexual me hiciste Lo manacle de la selva Tehuana vestida, mi cuerpo De calas blancas; ahora como basura Pesada, pero liberada; Corona de cárcel; mucho más Caballero que tú - Fat old thing keep painting Mujeres con cabello largo Son más femeninas que yo Mira como serpientes vienen a

Mesmerized by Her Hands From A portrait by Alfred Stieglitz of Georgia O'Keeffe (3), 1918 She loves to wear my dark blue Navy pea coat and nothing else. She loves the soft feel, the weight of anticipation loving to unfasten the buttons, squirming so beautifully underneath, the way she stands there wanting to slide off my coat, who needs a fire in our shivery bedroom as she wildly heats me. I am mesmerized by her hands, the way she loves to trace every inch of my coat, no nail

What Happened to All the Unicorns? I’m a good girl. I do my homework. I assiduously read the comment section of every transgender story I find online before I leave the house I splay my fingers on the kitchen table & wait for my nails to dry & get my daily dose of tough love from the experts who are kind enough to inform me that I’d better be extra careful walking their streets under their sun under their moon that I’d best consider well at whom I smile in their restaurants t

She took in authors recommended by the man she loved. Took in words to open herself to him and clung to past conversations long forgotten. She was not well. Escaping into prose like wells of tar. Dark circles rimmed eyes of glassy concentration. Like the darkness of his taste in books, she let him consume her. Dani Marty is a Latinx writer from New Mexico. She lettered in Creative Writing in high school and took several Creative Writing and Poetry courses in college. She has

Model Son The only slaughterhouse is my freedom. 27 years have ticked by Being: a good son Being: a model minority Being: absolute. For you. for you. for you. The only need is what the baby needs. Crying for sustenance Crying for another chance to do it over Crying because there’s no going back, you’re in too deep Look what you reap & weep & steep the bitter tea of becoming doctor While ghost parents watch from the closets and against the walls Observe the cry for help, shake

Slowly Becoming this is how you learn to live in a woman’s body / it starts slow, like winter dawn / more hair here, more hip there / so many more questions / but discomfort sits heavy on your tongue / your hair loses its curls / your face its baby cheeks / your body is becoming a wasp / more sting in this skin / your body is becoming a leap year / a spiraling mountain interstate / a sweet tooth / a childhood house caught on fire / and what do you do / with a body you merely

Summer walks in gradual, but leaves in a huff, leaving me to fend for myself during autumn chills. I have no names for the months— only the way they feel on my bare arms. I would apologize for my ignorance but I know enough to keep my mouth shut, not like when the meteors fell and we stayed up after closing time alone talking in whispers. That night was pure summer, and in some ways was the beginning of my entire life. Justin Evans is the author of four chapbooks and four

Together The world fogged its lights and draped gray in our eyes like shuddering clouds above a darksome land. The day heard the city awaken and broken as the land fractured apart from front to back, the reflection in your eyes gray catbirds deep in a shadowed forest. I forgot you walked these grounds before, the clouds in your wake, the shaky yesterdays hungry for your smile, a darkness for two, the growing fog and you, before I happened along. Before that, candles fizzled i

for S, after ‘On Earth, We’re Briefly Gorgeous’ by Ocean Vuong Mateo Lara is from Bakersfield, California. He received his B.A. in English at CSU Bakersfield. He is currently working on his M.F.A. in Poetry at Randolph College in Lynchburg, VA. His poems have been featured in Orpheus, EOAGH, Empty Mirror, and The New Engagement. He is an editor for RabidOak online literary journal. #poetry #issue1 #MateoLara

In which I do not love, Do not want him close— But think it would be nice, To touch his lips— Reach out with Two fingers and Push at his pink, Trying to feel for intimacy In which I do not love, Do not want him For a prolonged time, But think it could be good— To feel his lips— Reaching out in Asexual curiosity, Thinking maybe, Thinking maybe Constance Bougie is an undergraduate English major with focuses in creative writing and LGBTQ+ studies. They have previously publishe

my god. Caroline Grand-Clement my god wears flannel shirts tied around their waist. my god has too much gender to be bottled up into a name. my god trims their nails short but never falls short of the right words to preach. my god has black sneakers & rainbow socks upon which we lay our hope. my god wears a black tie, forever ready for a funeral they did not plan. my god braids acceptance in all their children’s teeth, dyes love into our hair; my god helps us keep going forwa

For my Mother The words echo: "kurachu samayam tha" "kurachu samayam tha" Give me some time… then darkness comes. She weeps. She knows she’ll never feel the same. Time. In Malayalam—give me some time. Indian curse. She felt it. She didn’t pray enough. Her son was worth more than any diamond. Worth more than any piece of gold. He was singular. All the people knew. She knew. His friends knew, but she knew that he would slip away. Something would take him. But before…she— —She s

providing amusement / warmth / & tenderness / exhausts me / could you take my bitter ? / my justified anger ? / my chaos ? / or do you only want black women / when we remain compliant / when we give you / that "sass" you love to presume we all have / this time / instead of soothing my ghosts / i have become one / i couldn't even be alive for myself / i can't live where life actually exists / i float / i'm apart of this haunted house Vanessa Maki is a queer writer,artist & ot

i’ve made love to an abundance of elizabeths and avas and karinas let’s not forget kiras and oh my god what about tianas and danielles that preferred dani and ebonys and paolas and chantes that covered their bodies in glitter and walked with me to my car to kiss

Decades of Art I can lie like a jazz singer on a sultry bed, in a torrid nightclub. It's the 20’s, sliding inside humid Chicago bars. I am a little girl, wonderfully sacred and scared of consequences. Nothing can be wrapped up as perfectly as pink bodies, naked in the daylight wet and sweltering on wrinkled sheets. Whispering red sweet secrets, like candy on sky blue Sunday mornings. I can lay on the grass after a music festival free from law, handcuffs, rules. It’s the 70’s

It’s one of those enveloping, criminally perfect 21st and Garwood Sunday mornings. The sky is burnt orange with hints of salmon peeking through, and the clouds are whipped, silky patches of cotton. Old women with placid faces and French-tied scarves sip cappuccinos at the Black Cat Café, while college kids play Frisbee at Quinton Park. Dozens of taxis pass by filled with hung-over Saturday expats and hipsters are camped out on brownstone stoops staring blankly at each other o

Her bedsit is a place of solitude, At least, a place for her to sit and hide. Magnolia walls, painted rough and crude And damp and mould that spreads across inside. The winter’s coming on. She holds her breath And wonders if she’ll be there when she’s old, Waiting as the walls ensnare her death. She shudders at the thought of being cold. A troubled youth had seen her move in here. Her father’s hand, her mother’s scalding ways Had brought nothing to her but pain and fear And n